Spatial Recognition
by Mike Gibson
Summary: Dean is trapped in a violent relationship. His boyfriend of three years is an alcoholic in denial with a penchant for abuse. When his third hospital visit in two months has a devastating diagnosis, Dean realizes he needs to get out. (possible triggers)
1. Bullshit, Dean-o

"You can't even cook a fucking vegetarian burger right!" Said burger and it's plate are viciously thrown across the room. Dean ducks just before it shatters into jagged shards on the wall behind him, ceramic and food raining down on him. Hands curled into fists, Dean winces and slowly sinks to his knees.

God_damn_ him. Why can't he do a single damn thing right? He fucking ruins everything he touches, as Sam constantly reminds him. He's starting to believe it. Or maybe he's known. His father probably planted that seed

"I'm _talking_ to you. Apologize for that piece of _shit_ you call dinner." Sam knocks back his fifth bottle of beer and slams it down, rattling the table. The bottle falls and rolls off the edge of the table, bouncing and spattering His steps are uneven and blundering. A drunkard in his prime. And yet, a six-foot-four giant with the strength of a raging bull. Khaki slacks only serve to accentuate his long, lean, powerful legs. The tight pinstripe dress shirt hugs a broad chest and rigid muscle. To most, it's an incredibly attractive sight. Dean had been one of those people. There'd been a time when he'd stared, and stared, and stared. When he'd been awed that such a man would even consider someone like Dean Winchester, when he had gorgeous, stable men and women eating out the palm of his hand.

He's followed the recipe to a T. He knows it's done right. But what is his diminutive word against Sam's drunken authority?

"Sorry," he mutters, eyes trained on the ground, watching the laces of his polished boat shoes as they bounce daintily. airily on a daunting size twelve. He's expecting it when blunt fingernails scrape against his skull and tug none-too-gently at his short hair, yanking him viciously to his feet. He inwardly flinches as Sam lifts a hand. Dean has learned to school his facial expressions into as little give as he can. If Sam knows how much it hurts, how each blow damages Dean both physically and emotionally, it'll never stop. Dean's head snaps to the side and he's momentarily blinded by the whiplash. Slowly, he faces Sam again. His once vibrant, joyous green eyes are now empty, and resigned. He's used to this; he's just waiting until it's over.

Three years ago, it hadn't been like this. In fact, things had been great. Dean felt loved and cherished and wanted. For the first six months, his past didn't matter. It didn't matter who he was or what he came from. He and Sam had spent nights curled together on the sofa, sharing a bowl of popcorn as they watched re-runs of Friends and Seinfeld.

Sam hasn't always been so violent. Then, of course, as most stories like these go, he started drinking. Dean would accidentally drop a plate as he did the dishes and the cycle would begin. Drunken rage, the violent misuse of Dean's body, then, the apologies.

'_Baby, I'm so sorry_.'

'_Oh, sweetheart, you know I love you_.'

'_I won't do it again_.'

Dean's personal favorite: '_You'll be better next time._'

For a while, Dean believed him. And he'd whispered 'I know, Sammy. It's okay. It doesn't even hurt'. Though his lip was split from the violent pounding of Sam's pelvis. Though his hips were sore from the finger-shaped bruises that adorned them. Though his eye was swollen shut. When Dean looks back at incidents like these, in retrospect, his whole fucking life has led up to this cliche. The poor, abused house-wife with the less than squeaky-clean, middle-class background. Scrounging for his life against a Goliath. But he's no goddamn David and he has no chance.

Sam's hand tightens and brings Dean out of his reverie. He sucks air through his teeth in a quiet hiss as Sam slams his head into the wall, tugging at his hair. "Listen to me when I'm talkin' to you," growls the glorified lawyer. Dean's seen Sam in action. Ironically, he's watched Sam defend domestic abuse victims with a sort of ferocious determination that makes him both sick and curious. And angry. Long fingers grip his jaw tight and force him to meet brown eyes he once found beautiful. The pressure of his fingers is blunt and hard, enough to bruise. He doesn't flinch. It's well-known pain. He and bruises are well acquainted.

"On your knees. Turn around. Take off your shirt."

He does as he's told. The tell-tale sound of leather sliding through belt loops causes him to tense. There's no warning before the belt cracks harshly against his pale skin, leaving behind brilliant red welts that taper into a jagged, bloodied point. He can't help but cry out. Sam's decided to use the buckle again. Dean isn't sure how many times Sam hits him. He gets lost amongst the vicious smacks and snips of the folded leather. Near the end, he comes 'round to find himself flat on his front, the sole of Sam's shoe pressing his face into the pristine linoleum of their up-scale loft apartment. All on Sam's pay check. Lawyers really hit it big in New York.

When it's over, Dean's numb. Emotionally, mentally, physically. His head feels heavy. There's a thick, wet puddle of blood pooling beneath his head. He shifts to his knees and nearly cracks a molar as his shattered kneecap protests loudly. He doesn't remember much. Just the strangely hypnotic way blood had spewed from his mouth to paint the linoleum like contemporary art. He's dizzy when he manages to push himself into a sitting position. Concussion. His sixth, since his stay with Sam.

The kitchen is silent, save for Dean's harsh breathing.

Sam wipes his bloodied hands with a dish towel. "I'm gonna go to bed," he says quietly. Dean can tell the apologizing is about to begin. "Why don't you get this cleaned up then have a nice, hot shower?" He stoops and presses a kiss to Dean's forehead. Dean hums his assent and watches his retreating form.

"Y...es, Sah- Sammy," he murmurs, voice thick and slow. It feels as if something's been jarred loose. Or something's been broken. There's a ringing in his ears and he lifts a shaking hand. The left side of his skull is...dented. Something feels loose. He realizes he can't see out his right eye.

Dean scrubs his own blood from the linoleum for an hour, and showers for another half. When he eventually crawls into bed, it's just after eleven. Sam stirs and wraps large, seemingly safe arms around his battered body. His kneecap is swollen and the way Sam's trying to tangle their legs together is agony.

"I'm sorry, Dean. Baby. I didn't mean it," whispers Sam as he presses gentle kisses to Dean's forehead. Dean can't feel the left side of his face as he slurs a repsonse.

"Ah kn-uhw, Sah-Semmy."

oOo

He wakes to an empty bed and a blood-soaked pillow case. He leaves it submerged in cold water in the bathroom sink. Dean's well-versed in the art of removing bloodstains.

" 'm hea'ing ou'," Dean struggles to say around a thick tongue and foggy brain. as he leans against the entryway to Sam's study. The lawyer is seated at his desk, feet crossed firmly at its corner. His fingers pause in their rapid typing on his laptop as he lifts his head. Shaggy brown hair falls floppily against his forehead, still sleep-mussed. Sam smiles softly and stands. He looks nothing like the drunken monster from last night. Sleep-soft and friendly. Sam presses a gentle kiss to his swollen cheeks, the large gash at his temple.

"Remember, we have dinner plans tonight. Eight o'clock. Don't be late," Sam murmurs. His voice is so soft and Dean's foggy mind conjures a smile because how could this man ever hurt him? Such a gentle giant. Dean accepts the warm hug, pressing a sloppy kiss to Sam's bare chest.

Dean limps out the loft door five minutes later, barista apron tied around his waist. He struggles to fit his arms through the sleeves of his father's old, beat up leather jacket. His limbs are heavy. He doesn't notice, when he sees his reflection in the mirror walls of the loft elevator, that there's an odd cloud in his right eye. And it's blooming in his left. The left side of his head is still matted with blood, causing the short hairs of his sideburns to stick messily against the curve of his cheekbones. The first sign that something's wrong: he doesn't care. The blood doesn't register. Just the simple 'ding' of the elevator as he reaches ground floor and the quiet whir of the housing generator.

When he steps onto the city bus, it takes several tries to swipe his MetroCard, much to the disgruntlement of the other passengers. The bus driver, Mister Earl, as Dean's come to know him, frowns at Dean.

"Dean? You...you've gotta scratch there." One brown, wrinkled finger taps its owner's temple.

"I f'll."

Dean limps along after the sensor beeps his pay.

Dean makes to take his usual seat. Mama Edan, the blue-haired old woman that owns the Garden of Edan flower shop shuffles onto the bus, tennis-ball adorned walker preceding. He stands and offers his seat out of southern hospitality. Despite the protestations from seventy-five percent of his battered body, he grips a pole. The fog that's settled over his mind prevents him from seeing her gratitude shift to horror. Mama Edan stares at the side of his head like she's seen a monster.

Dean's seen monsters. They don't look like him. They look like Samuel Singer.

The bus groans and grinds to a stop twenty feet from the coffee shop. Cup O' Bliss. His place of work for nearly five years. It's the only positive constant in his life. The smell of fresh mocha in the morning is enough to make a bad yesterday a good today. The quiet hum of their blenders.

He doesn't see the gazes of worried strangers as he stumbles off the bus and into the light snow that covers the side walk. Dazed, Dean sits there a moment, letting the cool crystals sooth the burn of his damaged body. When a passing cyclist crushes his hand beneath their bike tires, he picks himself up. His vision is fuzzy, buzzing. Christmas lights are beautiful smudges against a grey-blue morning sky. Street lamps remind him of postcards in the way they blur.

Dean makes a mental note to buy some postcards.

His heavy work boots thump against waxed and polished faux-granite. removes his beanie, which hasn't been serving its purpose this morning. He couldn't fit it over the odd lump on the side of his head.

"Dean, you're la- Jesus fucking Christ!"

He ignores Alistair, his cliché 'stern-yet-caring' boss, in favor of searching blindly for a coat peg. He only wants to hang his hat. Why is Alis shouting at him? A hand settles on his shoulder and yanks him away from the rack. Dean makes an odd sound in the back of his throat, as if he's protesting as well as sobbing.

"Wha- yuh doin'?" he asks, words blending and rounded. Unseeing eyes search in the semi-vision. There's a small sliver of sight, but Alistair is an otherwise unidentifiable mass with a single slash of red for his uniform collar. Like a watercolor painting.

"No, kid, what you doin'?" Alistair snaps. "Holy fuck, the hell happened to your head?"

Dean squints. He doesn't feel right, he doesn't feel well, he's in pain and the last thing he wants is more shouting. "I f'll."

The last thing he hears before his knee gives and his consciousness slips away is a softly muttered "Bullshit, Dean-o."


	2. Milk World

Alistair really doesn't get paid enough.

Alistair gently settles Dean in the backseat of his car and gives a low shout of a summon. Gabriel Novak, the snarky as all hell assistant manager of Cup O' Bliss sits in the back, Dean's bloodied, damaged head cradled cautiously in his lap. The blood is probably ruining Gabriel's expensive jeans, but he doesn't mention it.

Chuck, the anxious, paranoid, frizzy-haired mess of a worker wrings his hands as Alistair rapidly delivers instructions. He's to close the shop and inform customers that there's been a death in the family- because people eat that sort of sob-story shit right out of your hand. Alistair slams the door a little too hard and Gabriel flinches.

Alistair swears under his breath several times as he hunches over the steering wheel, wiry arms flexed and knuckles bone white. Gabriel watches him with a tilted head, expression guarded. His lips, no matter the situation, are almost always curled into a perpetual smile. Now, however, they're turned down in an obvious frown.

"What?" snaps Alistair as he swerves in and out of lanes to get to the downtown hospital as quickly as he can.

Gabriel is stone-faced. "Think it was Singer again?" His voice is soft and his fingers card gently through Dean's short hair. Dean is family to him, no matter how fucking stubborn the man can be on a daily basis. No matter how much he refuses to just let Gabriel help him. He's like a little brother- though Gabriel can definitely say that out of the two, Dean most certainly possesses more life experience, more wisdom born of hardship and challenges. More than Alistair, who's been in and out of prison twice in his forty-nine years of life and knows every back street and alley way New York has to offer.

"I'm not going to make any assumptions yet," responds his boss. The steering wheel looks severely distressed beneath his hands. "But if it is, I'm going to kick that sonuvabitch's ass so hard, his mother's going to feel it." And that's a dangerous comment to make. Same is a widely-known, well-paid, well-equipped lawyer. No doubt, he's protected. Sam knows every little nook and cranny when it comes to suing.

"Alis..."

"I swear to Mary, Gabriel, if you try to talk me out of it-"

"Hell no. I was gonna ask if I could help."

"Sure thing, Novak."

There's a glint of amusement among the varying degrees of worry.

* * *

They pull up to the emergency room entrance and Alistair helps lift Dean onto Gabriel's back. Gabriel carries him through the automatic double doors while Alistair sprints ahead. "Al-fuck!" Gabriel shouts, then releases an exasperated sigh. "Don't worry, Dean-o," he mutters. "I'm gonna get you to the best damn doc I know."

* * *

Dean is in surgery for four hours. Alistair paces a rut in the floor, nearly punches two nurses. Gabriel sits quietly, shaking the corner, Dean's blood dried and rust-colored on the palms of his hands.

* * *

"Cas, please. I'm the only family he's got- just let me-"

"Gabriel. You are well aware of the procedures. It will take months before the paperwork is even seen by an official."

"Castiel. For me. For him...just let me do this. He can't go back there. You saw him, Cas. You think he deserves any of that?"

"I ca-"

"Novak!"

Two heads turn as Alistair calls down the hospital corridor. He strides forward, anger masking his concern, though it lurks just beneath the surface of his scowl.

"I want a full sit rep," he demands, crossing heavily tattooed arms over his chest. He stares the doctor down. Clear, blue, expressionless eyes return his gaze, lacking the other's hostility.

"Mr. Winchester has been unconscious for eight hours. We cannot perform an entire evaluation without his full participation and awareness- thus, we've only gathered half the data necessary to make a correct diagnosis."

"Y'know you docs are real good at dancin' around shit. I need to know if that boy in there's gonna die. If he so much as stops breathing, even for a few seconds, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Mr. Winchester is blind- indefinitely."

The silence in the corridor is magnified by the distant beeping of various machines, of the squeaky soles of dress-code nurse's shoes. Gabriel's lips purse into a thin white line as he looks away, crossing his arms. Alistair looks as if he might hit someone. Castiel doesn't blame him.

"His injuries were severe. The least extensive damage to his body are his broken fingers. He suffered extreme blunt force trauma and several skull fractures. The occipital lobe, which is responsible for vision, was compressed to the point of temporary...shut down. His vision isn't completely lost, as his pupils are responding to light and rapid movement, but-"

Alistair is halfway down the corridor, heading to Dean's room, before Castiel finishes speaking.

* * *

Dean looks no better than when they carried him in. There's a shocking amount of gauze wrapped around his head. The white strips have random dark splotches where Dean's blood has soaked through, as well as clear fluids as the wound begins to heal. Alistair stands at his bedside, arms limp, his expression unreadable. His fingers twitch, as if he's fighting the urge to touch the swelling that litters Dean's cheeks, the dark, blood red clusters. Eventually, he sits, occupying the only chair in the room. He leans on his elbows, hands clasped together, knuckles pressed against trembling lips. He's never seen a kid look so beaten.

His left leg bounces as he fights tears.

"He's never gonna wake up. Fucking bastard killed him."

Alistair watches him with a keen, understanding eye. He's seen men crouched over the bodies of their fallen brothers, and, metaphorically, Gabriel's been in that position for the past four hours. Alistair might not be a veteran, but he's seen war, he's seen death, and he's seen panic, pain, and desperation rolled up in neat little toilet bombs. Prison is a war zone. New York is a war zone. There is no neutral ground.

"Gabriel, you're suckin' all his oxygen. Sit back and give him some space, would you?"

Gabriel, never one to sit still, paces the small perimeter of the hospital room, as if he's prowling for Dean's first sign of life.

It doesn't come until several hours later. It rattles out of a battered and bruised body like death. Another breath follows shortly after, almost a wheeze. He twitches, face twisting, fingers curling into the sheets beneath him. His lashes flutter and Gabriel is by his side in an instant. However, mossy, vibrant eyes do not appear. Dean seems to fold in on himself as he begins to convulse. The numbers on his EKG begin to rapidly drop and Gabriel freezes.

"Dean? Dean-o? H-Hey, no- stop. Dean-" Gabriel desperately chokes on the man's name until gentle hands are pulling him away. The room fills as Alistair presses Gabriel's tear-streaked face into his chest. Warm, bony hands gently rub his back, attempting to soothe him.

"It's all right, Gabe. Shh, it's all right," he whispers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and turning him away from the scene. "Don't look, son. Shh, it's okay. It's okay." Gabriel's blunt fingernails dig painfully into the skin of his back through his tee shirt, but he doesn't mind.

They stand in the corner, looking on as white coats and blue scrubs flutter around a man that may very well never wake up.

* * *

1:21 AM. Dean rolls his head.

* * *

3:10 AM. "G...br'l...hm..."

Alistair leaves to retrieve clean clothes for the three of them.

Gabriel doesn't acknowledge.

* * *

6:38 AM. He's awake.

Dean shifts, grunting as he attempts to sit up. Gabriel's immediately there- Alistair's sleeping in the chair and doesn't wake from the soft sounds of protest that leave Dean's swollen lips as Gabriel gently presses on his shoulders to urge him back down.

It's the soft "Don't- wha'?" that whimpers from Dean's mouth that wakes the ex-con. Alistair places a steadying hand on his wrist, pressure light, assuring.

"Dean-o, man, please." There's a high note of desperation there that Gabriel just can't contain.

"Kid. Dean," Alistair says, tone gentle but firm. "Stop that, goddammit. You're scarin' Gabe."

Dean twitches toward him, head jerking. "What's goin' on?" he demands, his voice scratchy and raw, hoarse as if he's been screaming. He has. The hands on his shoulders are familiar. Large, warm, safe. He slowly, slowly relaxes into the pillows. His weak body trembles.

Dean blinks.

Blinks again.

A third time.

_Oh._

He bolts upright, stitches and gauze protesting loudly.

"W-?! Gabe? What'd...what? Why can't I...?" His voice steadily rises in pitch as he questions his lack of sight. Everything's a murky, milky white with the odd vague shape that disappears as quickly as he sees it. He imagines this is what it's like when you drown. Vast nothingness surrounding you, the odd flash of light, the odd glimmer of hope that soon reveals itself as a simple mirage.

This only happens in the movies, or in those trashy crime drama novels his mom used to read. Dean knows; he's read a few of them. He swallows repeatedly and lifts his hands, IV tugging. He scrubs at his eyes, desperately hoping to wipe away whatever fog is impairing his vision. He feels buoyant, floating. His hands miss by several inches and he releases a high-pitched curse because what the fuck? "Gabriel."

Gabriel watches Dean struggle, thin lips pursed in a white line, even as his hands continue to hold the weak, struggling man down.

Dean's efforts weaken until he slumps against his pillows with a moan of pain and a whimper.

While he's not entirely certain of the damage to his skull, he's very aware of the mound of gauze and tape and bandages that decorate it. Briefly, he skims his head with his free hand. The other lays still in his lap, an IV nestled firmly beneath the skin. It steadily pumps morphine every thirty minutes. Dean drops his hand with a disgruntled huff. They've shaved his head, but only on the left side. He suspects there are stitches involved. He takes a moment to indulge in his disgust of what he must look like.

Little does he know, he looks much worse than he thinks.

The hospital room is quiet, save for the steady beep, beep, beep of his EKG and whatever else they've got him hooked up to. Gabriel's hands slowly retract and Dean's alone in the vast white nothing. Beside his bed, Alistair has settled in for a second nap.

He thinks Gabriel's left until the soft hum of his voice rumbles several feet away. Dean strains his ears and just catches a reply.

"...can do...try..."

The excited whisper that follows sounds suspiciously like Gabriel. There's a soft 'oof'. Dean's curiosity gets the better of him.

"...Gabe?" he calls. "Who's that?"

There's an abrupt silence, followed by the shuffling of two pairs of feet. The whisper of clothing and the rasp of jeans sounds to his left and he rolls his head to the side, feeling spectacularly exhausted after his efforts in sitting up. A soft click, like a pen, and the rustle of paper.

"Hello, Mr. Winchester." The voice is rasping and gravelly- nearly unpleasant in tone, but otherwise decent.

Dean remains silent.

There's a soft intake of breath and Dean searches the white, finding nothing. "My name is Dr. Castiel Novak. I have been overseeing your condition for the past several hours." Dean thinks that's Life's way of making a bad pun.

Novak.

"Okay. What's my condition?"_ I'm not scared, I'm not scared, I'm not scared_

"Dean, maybe-"

Dean holds up a trembling hand, effectively cutting off Gabriel's sentence. He needs to hear it- he wants to hear the full extent of a monster's wrath. He wants a valid, tangible, physical reason to completely hate Samuel Singer. And he's certainly about to get it.

Someone clears their throat. "You have three fractured bones in your hand. Your skull seems to have taken the most brutal extent of the damage. The left temporal bone was virtually shattered, there is now artificial bone in its place. There are thirty-nine stitches. Your right knee was dislocated, right ankle sprained. You sustained several haematomas on your shins and back. Multiple lacerations on your back and lower thighs. Minor internal bleeding. Essentially, Mr. Winchester, you are a walking bruise."

It's said with such a matter-of-fact attitude and no-nonsense tone that Dean releases an involuntary giggle, shortly followed by a soft groan of pain.

"Mr. Winchester-"

"Jesus, call me Dean."

There's a pause. "...Dean. It would be more beneficial to your health and recovery if you didn't make any sudden movements."

Dean's in the middle of a light nap when a gentle hand shakes his shoulder. He grunts a noise of protest and blinks. Nothing has changed. His world is milk. What he would give for a single cornflake.

"Mr. Winchester," a female voice chirps, pulling a grimace from Dean. "It's time for your meal. There is strawberry jello to your upper left, chicken noodle soup directly before you, and a cup of water to your upper right. I'm administering your medication through your IV. Have a nice meal, Mr. Winchester." And like that, she's gone. Alistair grunts after her.

"I don't think she has any kinda right to be that damn happy in a place like this," Dean mutters.

"Amen," comes the simultaneous reply from Gabriel and Alistair.

He feels around his tray until he finds a plastic spoon, waves that around until it comes into contact with his soup. After one sip, he sits back with a noise of distaste. Dean can't stand hospital food- if it even counts as food. Dishwater soup and stale bricks on the side- how quaint. He grumbles about that, feeling a bit more like himself now that he's had at least four hours' rest and a healthy dose of wonderful hospital meds. The food sucks, the narcotics are great, and the bedpans are changed regularly. It's practically a Hampton Inn.

A soft swish of fabric on fabric and Dean turns his head. "Dean, eat your food. Your medication requires a full stomach." With a mutter and a grumble, he fumbles for his spoon again, begrudgingly swallowing a second mouthful. "Gabriel, Alistair, may Dean and I speak privately?"

Dean stiffens and releases his spoon, sightless eyes flicking back and forth, attempting to discern any sort of movement. There's a distant blur, then nothing. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. There's the creak of a chair, a soft huff of breath, the click of a pen.

"You're taking your condition and diagnosis rather well, Dean," comments Castiel, and Dean turns his head to the tone is too goddamn conversational. Bedside manner tends to irk him. A rustle of papers. When Dean doesn't respond to his comment, Castiel continues. "I'm going to conduct a short survey that is given to all trauma patients. Please answer honestly and truthfully. This survey is confidential; it will be shared with no one. We'll begin when you're ready."

Dean is very familiar with these questions. His heart pounds in his chest as he nods.

A slow intake of breath. "Do you currently have a place of residence?"

"Yes."

Pen on paper. "Do you live alone?"

"No."

"With whom do you currently live with?"

"My boyfriend." Two years ago, Sam proposed. Dead had stepped out the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, sporting a day old bruise on his hip. He'd nearly stumbled over the giant of a man, kneeling before the bathroom door. Soft, long brown hair with just the slightest hint of a curl framed dimpled cheeks and a strong jaw. His grin had been so wide, so hopeful. Sam held up the ring like it was a gift from God. Dean had simply stared, heart thudding against his rib cage, desperate to escape, to be anywhere but there. After he'd scraped his jaw off the floor, he said no. For a moment, Sam had seemed so heartbroken...Dean nearly changed his mind. Then his expression had shifted from crestfallen to livid and Dean...well, Dean did his damnedest to forget every single second of that night.

_It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to say yes right now. I forgive you._

"Can you provide his name?"

Brought out of his reverie, Dean hesitates, pressing the back of his head into his pillows as something not unlike fear curls in his stomach. He presses his lips together as they tremble. He inhales sharply. "...Samuel. S-Singer." His hands tighten in the sheets.

"You're doing just fine, Dean," Castiel reassures, the rocky texture of his voice, calm and sure, partially eases the tension that has his neck ramrod straight. "How long have you been dating Samuel?"

"Three...three years, yesterday." Some anniversary.

The scratching of Castiel's pen seems to be far too long-winded for the answers Dean's supplying. Sweat begins to gather on his brow.

"There are three questions left, Dean. You're doing fantastic." A warm, soft hand settles atop his trembling fingers and Dean eases his grip on the sheets. "Have there been any incidents of domestic violence or abuse, reported and not?"

He's shaking. He's always lied. Always. Because he has a home with Sam. He has shelter and food and, occasionally, love. Tears well in his eyes and Dean blinks repeatedly. The rapid view of the milk world does nothing to stem the flow of abrupt sadness and pain. Throat far too clogged and thick to speak, he simply nods. Castiel's thumb strokes soothingly over Dean's knuckles.

"All right," murmurs Castiel, voice softer than before, less clinical. "Approximately how many times has this occurred in the past three months?"

His shoulders are shaking with the effort to retain his sobs. He doesn't have enough fingers to show him. Dean remembers every single time. He's practically got a data chart in his mind of how many times Sam has used, beaten, neglected him. "T-Twenty-t-t-two," he manages. The incidents vary in severity, but he remembers each and every one.

Castiel's hand tightens nearly imperceptibly atop Dean's as he sucks in a quiet, sharp breath. "Last question, Dean. It's okay," he assures. "Do you have anyone to contact for immediate removal from your currently unsafe residence?"

"G-Gab-Gabriel Novak-k. He's-he's my e-emergency c-contact," he stammers.

There's a tangible shift in the atmosphere. "No family?"

Dean shakes his head. "N-No. Gabe's my-my f-family."

"Dean, I cannot release you to Gabriel."

"Please- please. You-You don't un-un-under-st-stand," he half-hiccups, half-sobs. "He- I-I-I-I can't go-go back-ck. Plea-ease, please."

There is utter silence, save for Dean's stuttering, choking breaths and the erratic beeping of a monitor. "I'll see what I can do, Dean. But I can't promise you anything," Castiel finally says, hand squeezing gently before withdrawing. The chair creaks and fabric swishes, and he's gone.


	3. Thou Art the Ruins of the Noblest Man

"A ᴄᴜʀsᴇ sʜᴀʟʟ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴍʙs ᴏғ ᴍᴇɴ; ᴅᴏᴍᴇsᴛɪᴄ ғᴜʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ғɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ᴄɪᴠɪʟ sᴛʀɪғᴇ."

One can't really appreciate sight until it's gone.

It's the little things he's starting to miss: maneuvering around tables and chairs with ease, using the bathroom, drinking from a cup without bumping his chin. He misses faces. Not specific ones (though he does miss Alistair's and Gabriel's), but faces in general. When people greet him as he's pushed slowly down the hallway, he isn't sure if he should say anything in return. Maybe they're not speaking to him at all.

Before he checks out to change clothes and shower, Gabriel leaves the TV on for him. As if it's any kind of comfort that he can't see the pictures that come with the words of various cartoon characters and sports announcers.

Incidentally, Dean's well caught up on the stats for the Manchester United football team. And has developed a fair interest in the goings-on in soccer. He's never really thought it was very exciting, not until he got caught up in the fan worship and the adrenaline and the chanting and singing. It sounds like a home he never had, a family he's always desperately wanted.

On the third day, Dean's found himself actually caught up in one match and the excited voices of the announcers has him nearly on the edge of his bed, head turned unnecessarily towards the television, ears straining.

"Rooney's making his way to van Persie, tosses it over…oh hell, looks like they're going to get it! _Right_ over Petr Čech's head! Grand shot! There you have it—Manchester, five, Chelsea, three! Manchester United wins!"

"_Hell_ yeah!" Dean barks, rattling his bed as he pumps a cast-coated fist in the air, whooping along with the thousands of fans on the television screen. Though his bruised and aching body protests, he prevails in his sportsmanship.

However, some spirits are short-lived.

"_Dean_."

The reaction is nearly instant. His ears fill with a bees, buzzing and droning out all noise.

It's strange, the slick chill of fear that creeps up his spine and forces him to repress a shiver. He can't remember ever feeling this terrified. The familiar tap-thunk of polished dress shoes closes in and he remains still, paralyzed by fear. In the background, an infomercial for some superabsorbent towel prattles on. He focuses on it, blocking out all other sounds, all other sensations, there's nothing, nothing, nothingnothing—

"Please. Say somethin'."

Dean shakes his head.

Large, familiar, warm hands settle on either side of his face. Dean winces, not entirely out of pain. "Please, please, talk to me," Sam pleads, pads of his thumbs stroking his cheekbones, over gauze and bandages. It's all so soft and familiar and Dean wants to sob in despair because he _loves_it. This is the one part he's reluctant to leave behind. This loving, caring, sober Sam that cuddles with him on the sofa when they watch movies. The gentle Sam that worships his body, praises his mind. The man he fell in love with three and a half years ago.

He whimpers, the excitement of the soccer match is gone, the adrenaline in his veins replaced by searing heat and freezing cold. With a trembling chin, Dean swallows his tears. They go down like bile; bitter and sour and sad. A soft, breathy sigh leaves Sam and Dean just can't take how broken he sounds.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he rumbles in Dean's ear, burying his face in Dean's shoulder. Sam's voice is thick with guilt and shame and tears. "Let me take you home."

Dean blinks and a tear rolls sluggishly down his cheek, sliding down his neck until it soaks in the collar of his gown. "N-No," he manages, arms limp at his sides as he beats down the temptation to wrap his arms around the man that put him here, to stroke the knuckles of the fist that Sam has brought down on him again, and again, and again. To stroke soft brown locks that feel like heaven against his fingertips.

"_Please_—"

"Sammy, I can't—"

Suddenly, there are large, violent hands around his biceps, squeezing hard enough to hurt. He gasps, cold shock bursting across every nerve-ending in his body.

"You can't leave me," Sam desperately hisses, his breath hot against Dean's face. It reeks of coffee. Sam shakes him hard; forcing a hiss of pain through Dean's clenched teeth as his stitches tug uncomfortably. A familiar curl of heat licks in Dean's chest. He's angry, angrier than he thinks he's been in a long time.

"Sam, stop it, you asshole. Knock it the hell off—"

"Shut the fuck up," he spits, fingers tightening. Dean winces.

"Let go. Sam. Sammy, _let go_. C'mon, you're _hurting_ me—"

"What's going on here?"

The harsh fingers uncurl and Dean releases a stale breath, sucking oxygen as the blood flows painfully back into his arms.

"Sir, visitation hours are from noon to six. It is currently ten forty-two. You need to leave, immediately. Failure to do so will result in security escort as well as restricted visiting."

There's a moment of silence where Dean feels one harsh, cold set of eyes on him. He remembers what it looks like to see liquid chocolate freeze into putrid coprolite. He shivers and scrubs a hand over his face. His biceps pulse rhythmically; two twin pistons of pain. There's harsh breathing, like a bull prepared to charge and attack, seeing nothing but redredredred. The tap-thunk footsteps of designer shoes retreat without so much as a goodbye. He doesn't realize he's shaking until gentle, unfamiliar hands pull his blanket to his chin. Dean turns his face into his pillow, rubbing absently at his bruised upper arms.

"Are you alright?" The gravelly, rocky texture of Dr. Novak's voice soothes the terrified shudders.

He shakes his head, utterly rattled. Dean's nearly forgotten the way it feels to fear for his life, to wonder if anyone will hear him scream, or if it'll be painful.

"Do you want me to stay?"

He shakes his head.

* * *

The Novak brothers stand face to face, looking nothing alike. Gabriel, with his pointed chin, squared jaw and mischievous brown eyes, aside to Castiel, with perpetually stubble-coated cheeks, full lips, and keen, clear blue eyes. Castiel's just a few inches taller in his white coat and sea-foam scrubs. A shock of dark hair in contrast to rich honey and caramel.

Gabriel's thin lips purse, a precautionary measure to keep them from trembling. He crosses his arms, looking away from clear, honest eyes. "I don't understand," he says, low and measured, thinly veiled betrayal.

Castiel's hand settles atop Gabriel's fist, where it's balled up in the crook of his elbow, knuckles stained white. It's a brotherly gesture, reminiscent of their youth, when holding hands was okay as they skipped along. Long fingers uncurl and briefly hook with Castiel's before retracting.

"Gabriel," he murmurs softly, rasping tones as soothing as his bedside manner. "Your schedule does not permit the type of care Dean needs. He'll need around the clock service."

"I can do that," insists Gabriel.

A soft sigh and Castiel's hand shifts to Gabriel's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "Perhaps, if you hired a nurse, I may push the paperwork through." Muscles beneath Castiel's hand bunch and coil as Gabriel shrugs his hand off. Gabriel can't afford to hire a part-time nurse. Not with the money he's making at the coffee shop.

Anger, an expression not oft used by Gabriel, is written plainly in the hard set of his jaw, the rigidity of his posture. "Do you know what'll happen if he goes back?" he hisses lividly. "He'll die. You see him right now? Nothin' close to what could happen to him. _Cas_. Let me _do this_ for _him_."

Castiel's mouth opens, then closes, opens again. "I…" His eyes flicker to the open doorway where Dean rests, exhausted from a second seizure not minutes after their discussion of Dean's abusive household. The blood that had trickled from his nose has been wiped away. His cheeks have been shaved graciously by Alistair. The cannula was reinstated. Gabriel's eyes trace Castiel's gaze.

The anger dissipates. Gabriel's lips can't remain stiff any longer. His eyelids can't keep the tears at bay. His hands clutch at Castiel's back as he yanks him forward into a bone-crushing embrace. The second eldest Novak brother shakes in the arms of the youngest, holding on for dear life.

"C-C-Cas, pleas-se. H-He needs a-a-a h-home," Gabriel all but begs into the slope where neck and shoulder meet. It's so strange to hear that tone again. Castiel, Gabriel, and their brothers hardly went without as children- born to an esteemed physician in his prime and a starlet of a mother, they had money for whatever they desired. However, that didn't stop Lucifer and Gabriel from whining about '_his is bigger, why's mine so little?_' or '_he got more than me. that's not fair_'. It's not a whine for himself, though. Not this time. Now, it's a plea for Dean.

Though they rarely engage in contact as full-body and emotional as this, Castiel wastes no time in lifting his own hands to Gabriel's hair and back, stroking soothingly. "Shh," he whispers against his temple. It's never been an easy thing—watching Gabriel cry. The boy with the sweet tooth as long as Castiel can remember. The care-free older brother who had a natural talent for dealing with bullies. There is nothing sweet about the salty, bitter tears against Castiel's skin. Nothing at all.

Dean slips in and out of consciousness, unaware of the conversation transpiring just outside his door.

* * *

"Dean, c'mon, just—will you just _give me your goddamn leg_?"

Gabriel has been trying to wrestle Dean's sweatpants on for nearly five minutes, attempting to lift the heavy leg brace and even heavier cast. However, Dean's medication has him wandering the fields of Never Never Land, traipsing through the forest with Peter Pan at his side.

Dean releases a short half-snort, half-giggle. "– that _tickles_, Gabe," he insists, rolling his head uselessly on his pillows. Alistair has his phone out, calmly taking a video of Dean's drugged, cuddly tirade. He grins unknowingly at Alistair's phone.

"Know what else is gonna tickle? When I shove my _hand_ up your ass and twist," spits a red-faced Gabriel as he finally yanks the fabric on.

"Now, Gabriel," Alistair soothes as he slides his phone into his pocket and his hands into Dean's underarms. "That's no way to treat such a happy invalid." He grunts as his lifts Dean off the hospital bed and into a waiting and locked wheelchair. Dean's not much help.

"Guys, Jesus, guys—d'you see those shadows? It's like…_Death_, or somethin'," Dean comments in awe, slurring every other word, his milky eyes twitching in all directions.

"Yeah, alright, Dean-o. Mhm, I see them shadows. They sure are pretty," Alistair comments absently. And that's how their trip to the front desk goes. Dean stares wide-eyed at seemingly empty air, eyes flicking back and forth like he's seeing something magical. He probably is, the weird bastard. Christ knows what he's seeing in that blind world of his.

"How is he?"

"He finally shut the hell up," Alistair supplies—unhelpfully.

Castiel rolls his eyes and drapes his coat over a kitchen chair. His keys jangle loudly as he tosses them on the breakfast bar. "Has he complained of any abnormal or excessive pain? Headache, nausea-?" Hiking his foot onto the chair, Castiel begins to unlace his shoes, picking at the leather laces.

"He's complainin' about the unicorns runnin' around his arms and legs."

Castiel pauses. "Christ. Okay. It's likely the weight of his braces and casts. I'll look in on him." Castiel walks stocking-footed across the living room, dropping his shoes by the entertainment center as he does, and knocks lightly on the guest room door.

"—hm, wha-?"

"Dean, it's Dr. Novak. May I come in?" he calls through the door. Castiel pushes the sleeves of his white long sleeve to his elbows. They aren't permitted to wear extra clothing with their scrubs, but it's simply a thermal precaution.

There's a short pause, a thump, then a muffled, "…if you wanna."

Castiel turns the handle and gently pushes open the door. He's greeted to the sight of tangled blankets and a heap of casts and bandages spread across the floor, containing one Dean Winchester. His gaze flickering to the perfectly useful bed, then back to Dean, Castiel sighs.

"Have you forgotten my instructions on strenuous activity?" he asks mildly. The doctor crouches and slips his hands beneath Dean's shoulders. He's helped patients into beds countless times, which has resulted in a muscle bulk and extreme tolerance for the intolerable. Such as, Dean Winchester. As he gingerly lifts Dean's cast bound leg into the bed, Dean grunts in discomfort.

Castiel places a probing hand on Dean's exposed knee and feels for tension. Dean hisses and attempts to bat his hand away, missing by just a few inches.

"Didn't think sleeping counted as strenuous activity, Doc," Dean quips through gritted teeth, eventually latching onto Castiel's wrist and pushing his hand away. Castiel purses his lips.

"You weren't sleeping," he says matter-of-factly. "Where I pressed on your knee just now—on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you've ever felt and one being no pain at all, where would you rate your pain?"

Dean's face contorts as he mulls the options over, a small furrow dipping between his brows. Castiel notes he has far too many laugh lines for a man his age.

"Can I do halves?"

"If you think it necessary."

"Seven," he finally answers. Castiel nods.

"The medication I administered to you this morning—did it have any adverse side-effects and would you be opposed to taking it again?" Castiel locates the bottle on the bureau and checks the dosage with a sigh. Far too high. He'll simply split them later.

Dean snorts and his eyes fix on a point to Castiel's left. "The fuckin' unicorns, man." The other seems to sober, however, his expression shifting to one of uncertainty. "I saw some pretty weird stuff. Well, not _saw_ saw, but—I guess I saw it in memory? A dream? It really freaked me out. Shadows and shit."

Castiel nods in understanding. "Such side-effects are not uncommon. Don't worry," Castiel assures him. "I'm going to feel around your elbow, now, just above your brace. Are you opposed?" Dean shakes his head, then sighs—a world weary sigh, an 'I'm so damn tired' sigh that Castiel knows all too well.

"Is there a problem?"

He rubs his eyes and stares blankly at a spot beside Castiel's head. "—…I'm really fuckin' tired, doc. Ain't you got something in that doctor bag of yours to make me sleep?" His eyes are still clear emerald, no sign of damage. They pierce Castiel with their deep-seated pain and exhaustion. They're pleading and Castiel can oblige.

"If you aren't opposed to needles, I can administer an intravenous sedative," Castiel supplies, forcing his gaze away from Dean's. There's only so much burden a man can carry—adding another's is beneficial for neither party.

"I'll do anythin'."

Castiel gently settles a hand on Dean's shoulder in warning, and then carefully moves his fingertips down in increments. From his experience with the visually impaired, he's learnt that contact is key. Continuous contact is an assurance. If both hands are on Dean's arm, then there's nowhere else they can be. It's also strategic when dealing with victims of varying types of abuse. Gently, Castiel fits the pad of his thumb just beneath the padding of the brace's lining and massages. Dean winces, but otherwise shows no signs of extreme pain.

"We're going to do the scale again—one to ten, how is the pain?"

"It's not so bad—I mean, it hurts, but not like my leg. Uh…five and a half?"

"Five and a half."

Castiel kneels beside the bed and gently lifts Dean's uninjured arm. His knuckles are still swollen and bruised—

He fought back. Briefly, but he did.

This knowledge pinches Castiel's lips and softens the dip in his brows. "I'm going to take your pulse. Just breathe regularly." Castiel's forefinger and middle find the pumping vein in Dean's wrist and press. He looks down at his watch and counts each pulse.

"A little fast, but you'll be fine." Castiel stands, setting the medicine bottle back atop the bureau. Dean shifts and props himself up on an elbow, forehead wrinkling. The worry lines.

"…are you leaving?" he asks, looking uncertain as he stares into the hallway behind Castiel.

Castiel sighs. "Yes. I have to prepare dinner and retrieve your medications."

The other man sags and lowers himself back into the blankets. "Where's Gabe?" he asks after several moments of silence. His posture is extremely uncomfortable; his back and neck straight, his arms stretched out oddly at his sides.

"Sleeping on the sofa."

"Oh." Dean looks dejected.

"If you'd like, I can wake him," Castiel supplies. Dean's expression is disheartening. It suddenly occurs to Castiel, looking around the barren guest room, that it must feel incredibly lonely. Dean's impaired vision aside, he must be incredibly lonely.

"Yeah, I just…I really need to see h—talk to him," Dean says, correcting previously acceptable terminology.

"He'll be in in a moment."

* * *

Gabriel is startled from a restless sleep by a hand shaking his shoulder. He brushes it off with a muttered "Get off, Alistair".

"Gabriel."

Not Alistair, then. Gabriel cracks open an eyes to find Castiel crouched beside him, looking oddly upset. Of course, you couldn't tell just by looking at him. Castiel always seems to have this bubble around him that allows him to maintain a standard expression. Propping himself up on his elbows, Gabriel's brow furrows.

"Cas? What's wr—is Dean okay?" He swallows thickly. Castiel seems to notice his distress and settles a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Dean's alright. He's still in pain, but he wants to see you," Castiel says, his usually icy blue eyes soft with compassion. Despite his stoic and stern exterior, his brother has a large heart and is far more compassionate than any of their other brothers. It's why they've stuck together all these years.

Gabriel swings his legs over the side of the sofa and scrubs at his eyes. "Thanks. I'll go see him, now," he says quietly, voice still thick with sleep. When Gabriel pushes open the door, he refuses to acknowledge the bruising that litters Dean's face and arms and hands and legs. Most of them are deep, rich red that makes Gabriel want to vomit.

"Gabe?" Dean's gaze searches blindly.

"Hey, Dean-o," he greets softly, reassuringly, summoning whatever restraint he has. The urge to tug Dean close and hug the pain away is overwhelming. He's done it several times before, but not with Dean this broken and bruised. He steps into the room, not bothering with the door, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

Bright emerald eyes stare at his ear and Dean's smile falters. Gabriel watches his lower lip quiver for just a second before he's running his hand through Dean's hair, carefully avoiding the stitches, softly soothing him as tears flow unshed down Dean's cheeks.

"Gabe—I-I don't know w-what the fuck I'm gonna d-do," he stammers, wide-eyed.

Gabriel runs a gentle hand down his back, avoiding various gauze patches and bumps, his fingers soothingly tracing the knobs of his spine through a thin white t-shirt.

"Shh," he softly shushes him. "It's gonna be okay, kid. We've got it worked out. The police are looking for that bastard right now—"

"_What_?" Dean's voice is thick, yet shrill. "He's gonna—he's, he's good at lying, Gabe! That's his job! He'll be away from the police station an' lookin' for me in days." Dean's hands grip Gabriel's shirt in a white-knuckled hold. He looks frantic. Terrified. Desperate. Gabriel hates it. He hates that bastard for turning Dean into such a frightened man.

Dean resumes sobbing until he's wincing and coughing, holding his side. "…ow," he mutters miserably, rolling his head to rest against Gabriel's thigh.

Gabriel's fingers card softly through his patchy hair. "Cas's goin' out for your meds, I think. Shouldn't be very long. In the meantime, if you want an alternative, I know where he keeps his Southern Comfort."

Dean huffs weakly at the joke, and then sniffs. "He's got your taste in liquor. Speakin' a Castiel… you never told me you had a brother. Well, I mean, ya never mentioned Castiel."

"It's a long story, kid. I'll tell you when you're medicated."

* * *

There's a bright headline the next morning:

**_NYPD INVESTIGATES THE GOLDEN LAWYER: SAM SINGER_**


End file.
